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IRISH EMIGRANT; 



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MARY A. O'LOUGHLIN. 



COPYRIGHTED 1884. 



CHICAGO: 

THOMAS H. BUSH, PRINTER, CORNER POLK & CANAL STREETS. 

1884. 



THE 



IRISH EMIGRANT; 



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/ 



MARY A. O'LOUGHLIN. 



COPYRIGHTED 1884. 



mi 







NOV 10 1884 

CHICAGO: 

THOMAS H. BUSH, PRINTER, CORNER POLK & CANAL STREETS. 

1884. 



76 43^ 



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CHARACTERS. 

Nine gentlemen and six ladies are represented in this play 
as follows: 

James Carroll, the Hero. 

John Scanlan, a Companion. 

Andy Quirk, *^ 

Mary Citrran, CarrolFs Sweetheart. 

J. P. Curran, Mary's Father. 

Father McGee, Parish Priest. 

Widow Rieley, Carroll's Aunt, and only remaining rela- 
tive in Ireland. 

Widow Conners, whom Carroll saved from eviction. 
Mr. & Mrs. Ryan, Neighbors. 
Mr. & Mrs. Morne, 

Turner & Irwin, Agents. 

Ann O' Aknl, J. P. Curran's cousin and housekeeper. 



COSTUMES. 



Carroll, Scanlan and Quirk, and also Mr. Curran, the at- 
tire of well-to-do farmers. 

Father McGee, the walking suit of a clergyman. 

Mary Curran, a red skirt and green polonaise with gold 
trimmings, for the first suit ; a mourning suit for the second. 

The remaining charafters attired to suit their stations. 



SYNOPSIS OF INCIDENTS. 



Act I. Conversation between Carroll and Scanlan in re- 
lation to saving the Widow Conners from being ejected. 
Sudden appearance of Andy Quirk, who joins in the conver- 
sation. Mary Curran's name mentioned, Carroll makes 
manifest his love and admiration of her to his companions. 

Act II. Meeting of James Carroll and his sweetheart at the 
stile. Her disappointment at not seeing him the night previ- 
ous. He explains to her the cause of his absence ; also, de- 
termined to remove the only obstacle to their union, her 
father's consent. Mr. Curran refuses, but through Mary's in- 
terce!5sion yields. The young people jubilant. Ann O'Neil 
relates her love disappointment. 

Act III. Mary and Ann O'Neil at the death bed of her 
babe. Mary's grief multiplied, as it is the anniversary of her 
father's death. Ann O'Neil berates James for being absent 
so long at the land league meeting. James assassinated by 
Turner and Irwin on his way home. Picked up bleeding 
and in an insensible condition. Mary receives the shock with 
fatal consequence. Sudden death of Mary and the babe. 

Act IV. James heart broken after the funeral upon re- 
turning to his sad and lonely home. His grief beyond de- 
scription. Aunt Kittie's sympathy. He talks about his 
troubles and attempted assasination. His determination to 
go to the United States and petition the goverment to assist 
him in bringing Turner and Irwin to justice. 

Act V. Meeting his companions at the stile. Discussing 
his future plans and departure. Valedictory songs by Scan- 
lan and Quirk. James, after much persuasion, sings the la- 
ment of the Irish Emigrant, reserving the last verse to repeat 
at the grave of Mary and the babe. The day of departure 
the neighbors call to bid James good bye and send messages 
to their friends in the United States. Father McGee calls 
and gives his blessing and advice. James visits the grave- 
yard. His farewell to his native soil, and fervent prayers in 
her behalf Curtain falls, and when raised James appears 
with the stars and stripes and the green flag, and sings the 
''Irish Brigade." 



I 



ACT I. 

SCANLAN. (^Shaking hands with Jmnes, who is standing on 
the j^oadside). Bravo, my boy I Long may you live for your 
bravery last night in preventing the Widow Conners' eviction, 
and if all the prayers and good wishes she has offered to the 
Lord of heaven for you are granted, surely your hopes- will 
be realized. 

James. {Speaks earyiestly'). I only performed an act of 
charity as I was on my way going to see Mary ; and as it 
was growing dark I thought I would take the short cut that 
leads by the Widow Conners' cabin. Upon nearing the 
house I heard the cries and supplications of the poor widow 
and her seven ophans to that demon Turner and his assistant 
Irwin, begging of them to let her stay until her little girl was 
well of the fever. With closed fists and clenched teeth I 
listened to the heart-rending cries and supplications of that 
poor widow and orphans. Surely the sight would touch the 
heart of a savage not to speak of that of an L'ishman. 

ScANLAN. Well Jimmie, what did you say to them ? 

James. I said or did nothing to them until I saw them 
going to drive away her cow, the only dependence she had to 
support her little family. Turner said if he allowed her to 
stay she would have to give him the cow as a recompense for 
his goodness ; but I gave him and his assistant an introduc- 
tion to my black thorn walking cane and they went away in 
a very different mood from that in which they came, and with 
a strict warning to bring a stretcher along the next time they 
came to eject the widow^, or I would have to furnish one for 
them. Fearing that they might return again I remained un- 
til day-break and I want you and Andy to keep watch around 
there lest there should be foul play. {^Sudden appeay^ance of 
Andy, who hears the last words of James' advice, and breaks 

(5) 



6 THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 

the silence by shouting) : Erin go bragh ! and long live such 
a true son of hers as you James Carroll; and when Erin pro- 
claims her independence we will elect you president, for the 
hearts you made joyous as well as the one you made sad last 
night. 

James. {Looks at Andy anxiously, saying). How so? 
Please explain. 

Andy. How green you think we are! Remember if our 
Island bears the name of the green isle, that is no sign her 
sons and daughters are green ; and you never mind ; the day 
is not far distant when we v/ill be too ripe for some of them 
that call us green now. 

James. I hope so, but Andy, do tell me who is the owner 
of the sad heart you have just spoken of 

ScANLAX. Oh! the glad hearts were the widow and chil- 
dren, and the sad one was Mary Curran's. He builds his 
foundation from having seen her standing at the stile! and 
we heard her say, " I wonder why he does not come? I fear that 
something has happened." And it is the report all over the 
parish that you and her are going to be married, but that her 
father is death on you. And now you need not deny it, or 
be ashamed to tell us, as you may well be proud of her. 
Come, now, tell us when the wedding day will be, so that we 
can have our boots polished. 

James. I am not ashamed, nor will I deny my love for 
Mary Curran. On the contrary I am proud to say that I 
have the promise of her heart and hand, and that I think she 
is one of the fairest and the most patriotic daughters that 
Erin has ever raised. 

Andy. But what about the ould man? He swears that he 
will never have you for a Son-in-law, as you are too much of 
a partisan to suit him — that he has seen too much of this fool- 
ish patriotism. 

James {indignantly). I care naught for what he says or 
thinks. I respect him as the father of my affianced bride ; 
otherwise, I place his name upon the list of the stay-at-home 
Irishmen who fight with their heels in the ashes and let John 
Bull drive over our roads and through Erin's gates free of toll. 

Andy. Upon my honor, James, I think if you were 
keeper you would make him pay his toll. 



THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 7 

James. You are right ; and when I am he will pay both 
ways. And now I must be going. I will meet you both in 
Holly Grove to-morrow night, and tell you whether I have 
been accepted or rejected. Good day, and keep a close 
watch around the Widow Conners' cabin as those demons said 
that they would get even with me ; and we are well aware 
that they are like the thieves at night — come when least ex- 
pected. 

ScANLAN and Quirk. Good bye, and God speed you. 
There is no fear but you will soften the ould man's heart. 

James. I hope so, and it will not be my fault if I do not. 
( James zualks away humming the words of ' ' Irish Mo I lie, O. " ) 




THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 



ACT II. 

(^ James meets Mary at the stile and lovingly embraces her.) 

Mary. Oh, Jimmie, I am so delighted to see you here, 
as I have been in a perfect dilemma ever since seven o'clock 
last evening at not meeting you here at the appointed time, and 
fearing that something terrible had happened, as you are so 
valorous, and I have neither slept nor eaten scarcely anything 
since, and did not dare tell my fears to anybody, as mv 
father says you are too much absorbed in foolish patriotism 
that will end in a bubble of disappointment as hundreds have 
ended before. But Jimmie, do tell me what delayed you 
from coming at the appointed time, as I have always admired 
the trait of punctuality in your character. 

James {Takes hold of her hand.) My dear Mary, I am 
very sorry that I have been the means of causing you the 
slightest uneasiness, for heaven knows that I did not intend 
it, and if my society was a loss to you last night it was a gain 
to the Widow Conners. 

Mary. How so, Jimmie, tell me? 

James. Well, I will tell you. I was on my way to meet 
you, and when I was nearing the litde cabin I heard the most 
pitiful cries that could be uttered by a human being. I soon 
heard the poor woman's voice begging of that demon Turner 
not to eject her until her little girl was well of the fever — that 
dreadful scourge which at times rages o'er our dear island. 
He consented on condition she gave him her cow. The poor 
woman breathed a deep and sorrowful sigh and would have 
given the bloodhounds the only means of support that she 
possessed for the privilege of remaining in her own home. 

Mary. Oh, how sad the misery and wretchedness that ex- 
ists in our beautiful isle. I hope we will one day see the flag 
of liberty wave o'er our country; but Jimmie, I interrupted 
you; did Turner take the cow? 



THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 9 

James. No, Mary, he did not; for just as he was going to 
take the cow I gave him and Irwin an introduction to a 
friend of mine and one that always assists me in the time of 
need, and they did not delay long after the introduction. 

Mary. Oh, how fortunate that your friend came to ycur 
rescue. Please tell me who it was. You must give me an in- 
troduction to him as I do not think that I ever met him. 

James. No, Mary, you never did. I will introduce you, 
but the introduction will be in a different form from the way 
I introduced Turner and Irwin. Here is my faithful friend — 
my black thorn walking cane. 

Mary. Oh, Jimmie! I thought it was a living friend. 

James. It answered the purpose as well and perhaps bet- 
ter than a living one at the time ; at least I think they thought 
so at the time. That is the reason I did not keep my promise, 
and I think that I am going to make it up by my early ap- 
pearance this afternoon ; and also let me inform you, my dear 
Mary, that I am determined to overthrow the only obstacle 
that prevents our union, your father's consent. I can not see 
what great fault he can find w^ith me. Aunt Kittie says if she 
was talking to him she would tell him that one blessing we 
can boast of is that the pages of our ancestral history are 
without blots ; and that he has forgotten when he was young 
himself and how much opposed your grandfather Fitzgerald 
was at the time he asked his consent to marry your mother, 
and how he was so sternly refused. But your mother loved 
him, and through her intercession he yielded and gave his 
consent. 

Mary. Oh,. Jimmie, that will be a solid foundation for me 
to build upon. The only objection he has is that you are too 
much of a partisan. He says you are a Fenian and an In- 
vincible, and that you are secretary of the Land League ; 
and that such men are always away from home, and 
— {^Javies interrupts). And did he say that I was a for- 
tune hunter or an informer? — Mary {continuiyig) , Oh, no, 
Jimmie! he could not say that, as he is well aware that the 
Carrolls all were true to God and country, and he also knows 
that you can live independently upon your forefathers' land. 
But come, Jimmie, let us go in and "face the music" — and 
bear in mind that I will break the ice ; and remember, too. 



10 THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 

dear Jimmie, that no matter how dark the clouds may appear 
before you, that I will dispel them. {Mary and James enter 
the house unobserved by Mr. Czirran, who is reading), 

Mary. Are you all alone, father? 

Mr. Curran. Yes, I am alone, but I see you are not. 

Mary. No, sir ; I met Mr. Carroll at the stile, and invited 
him to come into the house. 

James. How do you do, Mr. Curran ? 

Mr. C. Oh, very well, Mr. Carroll, how are you? 

James. We are having beautiful weather at present. 

Mr. C. We are indeed, and I am glad of it. (^Turns to 
Mary, luho has taken tip the paper he was reading). Mary, 
do not lose my place, as I am, or was, reading an interesting 
piece. 

Mary. What was it, father, a love story? 

Mr. C. No, my child ; I will leave the love stories for you. 

Mary. I must go and see what Ann is going to have good 
for supper, and will leave you and Mr. Carroll to talk love. 
(Goes out, leaves the door ajar, and eavesdrops). 

Mr. C. Such nonsense as that girl talks ! 

James. Well, Mr. Curran, since Mary has broken the ice, 
I will tell you it is no nonsense, and that my presence here at 
this time is for the purpose of having an interview with you, 
and to ask your consent to our union. 

Mr. C. ^Amazed) Bless me ! I am taken by surprise, 
as I did not dream that such an afife6lion existed between you 
and my daughter. She knows how much I am opposed to 
foolishly patriotic men whose ideas are like soap bubbles — 
burst before arriving at maturity. I presume you read or 
have heard of Emmet's foolish adventure? 

James. {^Places his hand to his lips and paces the floor). Oh, 
breathe not his name ! Let him rest in the shade, where, 
cold and unhonored, his relics are laid ; but heaven grant that 
I may live to see them honored. 

Mr. C. There it is again! Just as though such foolish 
ideas would ever be realized. Oh, no ; my daughter, the ap- 
ple of my eye and the image of her dear departed mother, my 
cherished wife, whose vacant chair remains veiled in heavy 
drapery and shall never be occupied while I live, neither shall 
my daughter have to say that she had a stepmother; and do 



THE IRISH EMIGRANT, 11 

you not know that I am a grand nephew of John P. Curran 
and bear his name, and now tremble lest my daughter's affec- 
tion for you, bitter partisan that you are, may prove as fatal 
as Mary Curran' s love for Emmet? 

James. {^Indep evidently ^ And allow me to tell you, if you 
do not know it, that I am a descendant of that never-to-be- 
forgotten Irish patriot, Robert Emmet. 

Mr. C. You a descendant of Robert Emmet? I was not 
aware of it. Please inform me of the relationship. 

James. I am not a descendant by the tie of relationship, 
but a descendant in spirit. Robert Emmet desired to gain 
for his country what Washington gained for the United States 
of America. I wish to do the same, and if our Heavenly Fa- 
ther spares me my health, I will. 

Mr. C. Such castles of patriotism ! When it is too late, 
you will find that they were built in the air. I was just as 
full of patriotic whims as you now are, but erased them all 
from my memory when I thought of entering the matrimonial 
state ; and if you loved my daughter as I did her dear moth- 
er you would do the same. 

James. Allow me to say to you, Mr. Curran, that you 
could not enlist in our ranks. 

Mr. C. Why not? 

James. Because we enlist only the genuine patriots who 
keep the lamps of true patriotism burning until death and 
death alone quenches them. You say if I love as you loved 
that I will do as you have done. Allow me, sir, to tell you 
that man never cherished a more ardent or purer love for one 
of the feminine sex than I do for your dear daughter. God 
in heaven, who sees and reads the inmost recesses of the heart, 
knows that I would drain the last drop of its contents to save 
her from harm, were it necessary. Nevertheless, although 
possessing this ardent love for her, I will never sacrifice the 
hopes of my dear country upon the altar of affe6lion! 

Mr. C. That setdes it. Suffice it to say, Mr. Carroll, that 
it is useless for us to prolong this interview. I should be 
very much pleased to have my dear daughter unite with a 
member of the Carroll family only that you are a radical par- 
tisan, as were all your ancestors, and so will be your descend- 
ants, and now let this be final — I shall never consent to my 



12 THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 

daughter marrying one of the Carrolls if she never gets a 
husband. 

Mary. {^Rushes in and imprints a kiss upon her father' s 
cheek). Oh, my dear father! Surely you will not separate 
two fond hearts so united and devoted to each other — an af- 
fection not formed in a day nor a year, but since the days of 
childhood when we roamed the fields together and Jimmie 
gathered me bouquets of daisies and showed me the magpies' 
nests. Dear father, you should be proud of your daughter's 
choice, for while he may have many an equal, he has not a 
superior in the Emerald Isle. My heart beats with joy when 
I see him, and my mind is filled with brilliant hopes for the 
future ; and were I now to be deprived of his society my life 
would become as inanimate as would the shamrock's, were it 
to be removed from the green isle to the sandy desert. 

Mr. C. I was under the impression that you loved your fa- 
ther better than any one else, but I see I was sadly mistaken. 

Mary. Oh, Father ! Have I not always tried to practice 
the Fourth Commandment in loving, honoring and obeying 
you? 

Mr. C. And what are you doing now, honoring and obey- 
ing me? No! but dishonoring and disobeying me to the full- 
est extent of disobedience. 

Mary. Oh, Father! Have I not always heard you say 
that marriage is the most important step that young people 
take in life, and that you believe young people ought to suit 
themselves ; and have you forgotten that you were once young 
yourself? 

Mr. C. (^Sarcastically?) Do not ask such foolish questions, 
Mary. I see you have not the love for your father that I 
thought you had. 

Mary. (^Mournfully ^ Oh, ni}^ dear father, it grieves me 
to hear you say so. Did you not often tell me when I sat 
upon your knee that I was just like my dear mother, and 
loved you just as she loved you, and did you not love her? 

Mr. C. {Inpatiently.) Love her? If I had not loved her 
you would have had a step-mother long ago. 

Mary. And did she not love you? 

Mr. C. Yes, your dear mother loved me with an undying 
love. 



THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 13 

Mary. Then it is not a wonder that I resemble her so 
much, as that is just the way that I love Jimmie. 

Mr. Curran {Taking her by the hand). Oh, woman! thy 
tong-ue hath conquered where the sword hath failed. {And 
arising from his chair leads her to where James is sitting. 
James arises from his seat.) Here, Mr. Carroll, take her; my 
blessing I bestow on you both, and remember, take as good 
care of her for the next twenty years to come as I have done 
for the past, and now name the date of the wedding day and I 
will make arrangements for the wedding. {Exit Mr. Curran). 

Mary. Did I not dispel the dark clouds in a short time? 

James. Yes, my dear Mary, and I trust that our future 
lifetime will be blest with sunshine, and should dark clouds 
arise may they as speedily vanish. {Ajid placing his arm 
around her zvaist they sing alternately the followifig li?ies 
joyously : 

James. Oh how happy we shall be 

Mary. When dear old Ireland is free. 

J. And the lads and lassies without dread 

M. And the green waving above the red. 

Enter Ann O' Neil, singi?ig the following lines to the air, 
'' Girl lEeft Behind Me.'' 

Young men's flattering tongues beware and do not mind them 
For they will be talking until they die, and then they leave you behind 
them. 

Mary. Oh, is this you, Ann? Let me introduce you to 
Mr. Carroll. 

Ann. How do you do Mr. Carroll? And indeed I re- 
spect you highly on account of your mother, heaven be her 
home. She was a companion of mine and we were often at 
fairs and parties together, but your father was always mixed 
up with party men, and that is the rason I came in to take a 
good luck at you to see if you tuck afther your father or mo- 
ther. I see you are the dead picture of your father, but I hope 
you will not give this girl as many heart aches as your father 
did your poor mother with his party business. 

James. Miss O'Neil, I will do all in my power to make 
her lifetime happy, and Mary is also aware that I will stand in 



14 THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 

readiness at all times to answer my country's call, otherwise I 
will endeavor to promote her happiness. 

Mary {to Ami), I should think Mr. Carroll must have 
been very g-ood looking- — hmdsoms I should call him — if his 
son took after him in looks. 

Ann. He would be a great deal purtier if he tuckafther his 
mother. Nellie O'Rourke and Kittie O'Rourke, that's his 
Aunt Kittie, and Ann O'Neil, that's meself, we were the 
purtiest girls in the parish, and indeed it was not every one 
that we compared ourselves to, as we came of the rale ould 
stock. 

James. It surprises me that you remained single, Miss 
O'Neil, as I should judge from your present appearance that 
you must have been very good looking in your younger days. 

Ann. '' There is many a slip betwixt the cup and the lip," 
as the old saying is, and let you and Mary take care, as I was 
as near being married as you and her are, and was disappointed. 

M VRY. O'.i, An:i! D3 t^U us about your love disappoint- 
ment. 

Ann {stghi7ig-), I tould you that I was one of the purtiest 
girls in the parish, and had a great many lovers, but there was 
none among them that I loved as well as the one that proved 
the greatest deceiver, and left me to live the life of an ould 
maid ; for afther him I will never believe any man, no mather 
who he is, until afther the knot is tied, for, Misther Carroll, 
if you were to hear that fellow talking to me you would think 
that buther would not melt in his mouth. Oh, the deceiver! 
When I think of him and all the fine fellows that I cast aside 
for him, it grieves me to the heart; and to make a long story 
short I heard that he was going to be married to a Miss some- 
body — I will not mention her name, as she was too good for 
him, I think, but indeed she did not think so, as she was glad 
to catch him, and afther they were married they went to Aus- 
trala and I hear that they are rich there while I am a poor 
ould maid in the corner here. ( VVip^s the tears from her eyes). 
Never you mind ! Not that I wish him any harm, but I hope 
he will get a thrip yet for his good deeds — but I am forgetting 
meself, as I have the worst of my story to finish. The 
mornin of their wedding I got up with a sore heart, but did 
not let on that I cared a bit, and dhressed meself and put on 



THE IRISH EMIGRANT, 



15 



my white apron and stood in the dure watin for the weddin 
to pass by to make out that I did not care (and me heart 
braking). I so3n heard the fiddle (as it was customary them 
days for the groom to hire a fiddler to play as the w^eddin party 
marched to the church) and just as they were passing my 
father's dure the deceiver looked right at me and to brak me 
heart out and out he says to the fiddler, ' ' play up the Girl I 
Left Behind me," {^and as the curtai7i rolls down Ann dances 
to the music of the Girl I left Behind Me. 




,?^f 



16 THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 



ACT III. 

TWO YEARS AFTER THE DATE OF ACT I. 

Mary and Ann sitting by the cradle of the dyi^ig babe, 

Mary. (^In a supplicating voiced . Oh, dear babe, do not 
die until your dear papa's return, for he has indulged in such 
fond hopes for your future, and has so often said that if he did 
not live to see his country freed that he would rear a son who 
would, but I fear his hopes of his dear son will be blasted. 
{Here Mary stoops and kisses the babe and dries the falli7ig 
tears), 

Ann. I think you are going past yourself, intirely, for don't 
you know it is wicked for you to be crying for that child who 
is only six months old? It would be a blessing if the Lord 
would take him, or any party-man's son, before he grew up 
to cause any woman the grief his father has caused you, but 
which you will admit. 

Mary. {Indignantly^ I must say that you are very sym- 
pathetic, and Ann O'Neil, if you were not my father's cousin 
and my foster-mother, I would order you to leave my house 
for thus impeaching my noble and honorable husband. You 
must understand that I am his wife and the mother of his 
child, and what tie is riveted with more afifeftion around the 
heart of man than his wife and children ? 

Ann. Och, that's just the way with the women ! If their 
their husbands bate them one minit they will be ready to bate 
any one that wud say a word agin 'em a minit afther! 

Mary. Just what any true wife should do, and it it is good 
enough for any one that interferes between man and wife, for 
has not the Lord said, ''What God hath joined together let 
not man put asunder" ? 

Ann. Well, He said nothin' 'bout wimen putting asund- 
ther ; but I will thry and hould me tongue afther this. I was 
only sorry to see you cryin' and him away to the lague meet- 



THE IRISH EMIGRANT, 17 

ing and this child so sick, bad scramps to the land lague and 
its meetings. 

Mary. A wife sheds many tears that her husband does 
not see, and for which he is not to blame. Jimmie is not to 
blame for the tears I shed to-night as I sit by the cradle of my 
dying babe. They are the tears of affection shed by a mother 
who is waiting and watching for the last ray of hope to shine 
upon him ; and were all the wealth in Great Britain laid at 
our feet it would be a mere atom in comparison to the life of 
this precious boy. But if God is p'eased to take him I w^ill 
bow^ in submission to His holy will; and Ann, do you not 
know, this is the anniversary of my father's death, which alone 
would naturally bring tears to the eyes of any child that had 
the least spark of affection in her. But alas ! it is destined 
that children cannot realize the depth of parental love until 
they become parents themselves, which is oftentimes too late. 
I can now see and realize the depth of a mother's love as I sit 
here and look upon my little darling. 

Ann. You will not have him very long to look at, for he 
will soon be with the angels. 

Mary. {Stoops over the cradle and kisses the tabe\ Oh, 
Ann, how he is changing. I fear that Jimmie will be left alone 
soon, as I, too, am failing fast. I fear that I am a vi6lim of 
quick consumption — you know my mother died of it when I 
was only three months old — and what grieves me most is the 
thought that poor Jimmie will not have any one to confide in 
or to sympathize with him. 

Ann. {Impatie^itly?) Divil a fear o' hini ! He'll take care 
of himself; but I'm afeerd this child will die before he comes 
back. 

Mary. Oh, I hope not, but I am beginning to be alarmed 
at his long delay, as he said he would hurry home as soon as 
possible. I hope nothing will happen to him on his way. 
Turner and Irwin are about to leave for the United States, 
and they have threatened to be revenged upon him for inter- 
fering with them the night they were going to eject the Widow 
Conners, but I hope he will escape unharmed. As the babe 
seems to be resting quietly I will lie down upon this couch ; 
and you sit here in the arm chair near the cradle and if the 
babe awakes arouse me immediately. {Ma7ys slumbers dis- 



18 THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 

turbed by visions of foul play. Titriier and Irwin lay plans 
to assassinate fames as he comes home from the nieetiyig). 

Tqrner. Now Irwin, we must do him up to-night if pos- 
sible, and to-morrow we will be miles away. The government 
will help us away and never spend one moment looking for us. 
If we can only lay him out, the rest will be easily subdued, as 
he is their leader and they must be kept down or they will 
soon have the whole island to themselves, and the landlords 
would have to go begging. 

Irwin. I will do my best, but listen! Here he comes! Do 
not speak above your breath, as the fellow is as quick as a 
cat 

Turner. Oh, indeed I am well aware of that. You stand 
on that side of the hedge and I will stand here. If I miss the 
blow you be sure not to fail, or we would never know what 
happened us. Hark! here he comes, and alone. Quick 
work! Let it be now or never! 

(^ fames comes along, apparently i?i deep meditation, when 
Turner aims a heavy blow from behind the hedge and misses 
him. fames spri?igs in the direction from wheyice the blow 
came, but is felled by a blow from Irwin, and falls, bleeding 
and insensible, by the roadside. Turyier and Irwin thinking 
they had finis he'd him, inake good their escape^. 

Mary. (^Starting up froin her slumber). Oh! Ann! Has 
Jimmie not come yet, and how is the babe? 

Ann. Indeed, he has not; as for the babe, if it lives until 
morning it will be the longest, as he is sinking so fast that his 
breath has nearly left him. 

Mary. (^Looking pitifully upon the little sufferer.) I will 
willingly give you up to the Lord ; but if anything has hap- 
pened to your papa, I will die too. 

Ann. Didn't I say there's no fear o' him? You had bet- 
ther take care o' yourself 

Mary. Oh, Ann, I have had a presentiment, and I fear 
something terrible has happened my Jimmie, or he would be 
home before this hour. Just think! Ten minutes to four 
o'clock, and Jimmie not home! Oh, my darling, do come 
soon, or I shall die from this anxiety ! 

Ann. Whist ! I think I hear the sound of footsteps. 



THE IRISH EMIGRANT, 



19 



than one person coming. Quick, 



Mary. There is more 
see what is the matter ! 

Ann. ( Opens the door mid suddenly clasps her hands^. 
bless us ! They are bringing Jimmie home dead ! 

Mary. {Screams). My Jimmie dead! I will die 
him ! {^Falls back on the couch insensible). 



Lord 
with 




20 THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 



ACT IV. 



James. Aunt Kittle, it is all over with now. I have heard 
the clods fall upon the coffin and have seen the last sod placed 
upon the grave of Mary and babe, and the impression made 
upon my heart while standing at that grave will never be 
erased while life exists, although I did not half realize it un- 
til I came back to this little cottage the seat of joy and happi- 
ness ^ such a short time ago, and now desolation and sorrow 
are imprinted upon its walls inside, and around every foot of 
It outside. {Hei^e he indulges in the depth of his grief). 
Dear Mary, never more shall you await my coming or imprint 
the affectionate kiss of welcome. Never more will you escort 
me to the stile and repeat the fervent prayer for my safe return. 
Oh, Aunt Kittie I hope that our Lord will give me patience 
and assist me in being reconciled with His holy will, for He 
has been pleased to fill the cup of sorrow to overflowing for 
me if ever it was filled for an Irishman, and there are three 
persons ^ whom I blame for helping to fill it. One of them I 
will forgive, as her rashness was due to ignorance, but the others 
I will not let rest until I am avenged. 

Aunt Kittie. Tell me, Jimmie, who you refer to. I am 
at a loss to know why you talk thus as I thought you more of 
a christian than to censure human beings for what our Heavenly 
Father w^as pleased to inflict as he doeth all things for the 
best. 

James. Aunt Kittie, it is easier to preach than to practice. 
I am aware that our Lord was pleased to take our precious 
babe and also to afflict poor Mary with sickness, but she was 
hurried to the tomb. The blow that Turner and Irwin dealt 
so unaware upon me and then my being carried home in an 
insensible condition would of course bring any person to the 
horrible conclusion, from the appearance of mv blood stained 
face and inanimate form, that I was dead ; and indeed I need 



THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 21 

not thank the cowardly demons, for if I had not have been 
picked up I should have died from loss of blood or been 
crushed by some passing vehicle. I regret that you were not 
with poor Mary at that time to break the news gently to her 
instead of the sudden anouncement of Ann O'Neil, as she 
might have survived the shock. The Doctor told me that I 
must be careful of suddenly exciting her, as her nervous con- 
stitution was very weak, and by taking her to the sea shore 
she and the babe would soon regain their health and strength. 
At our last meeting I made arrangements for leave of absence, 
and intended to take them to the sea shore but they will not 
need any more of my care or attention, and I will now -live 
here in hopes of meeting them on that blessed shore where 
there is no parting. 

Aunt Kittie. I am pleased to see that you are becoming 
reconciled with the will of God and that you will forgive those 
whom you accuse of helping to fill the cup of sorrow for you. 
I shall pray to heaven for reconciliation. 

James. Ann O'Neil I forgive, but never do I wish to see 
her again ; but I will hunt Turner and Irwin as the hounds 
hunt the fox, and when I capture them I will show them the 
same mercy that the British government did poor O'Donnell. 

Aunt Kittie. I think that would be the height of folly, 
as they are now walking upon the shores of the United States, 
the land of the free, and you could never find them there. 

James. That is just the place that I could find them, as I 
would have one hundred friends where they would not have 
one, and I will inform my countrymen as soon as possible and 
they will soon assist me in bringing the demons to justice ; 
for if they were allowed to go unpunished it would be an en- 
couragement to others, and we have a great deal more than 
we can do to battle with them at noontime, not to speak of 
being assassinated in the dead of night. And now, Aunt 
Kittie, as soon as you can get my wardrobe ready I will goto 
the United States. I think the voyage across the ocean will 
do me good and help to keep me from indulging in sadness 
until my grief is subdued. I have long wanted to go and 
visit the land of the free and the home of the brave, and you 
know that I was quite a small boy — my mother's baby boy — 
when my two eldest and only brothers went to the United 



22 THE IRISH EMIGRANT, 

States and were there only a short time until they enlisted in 
General Sheridan's army and both fell mortally wounded at 
the battle of Winchester and Father John, your son, will show 
me where their graves are, as he had them honorably buried 
and a tombstone placed at their graves. I scarcely remember 
their faces but their memories were daily imprinted upon my 
youthful mind as I listened to my dear mother's prayers lor 
their welfare after they left home. I shall never forget the 
night that we received the news of their death. 

Aunt Kittie. O, James, do not repeat it. It is indelibly 
imprinted upon my heart, and it helped to shorten your poor 
mother's life. I am glad that she can not see the grief that 
you are visited with. You were the idol of her heart. 

James. Yes she would mourn as the true mother does, and 
one consolation I have is the thought that I never was the 
cause of one moment's anxiety to her through disobedience, 
and I often times think and feel as though her spirit was near 
me cheering me on in the path of duty — that narrow path 
that she so often told me leads to life everlasting. I see it is 
nearly seven, and I must attend this meeting, as they wish to 
frame resolutions for future plans and to send a copy by me 
to our brethren in the United States. 

Aunt Kittie. I will be very lonely while you are gone 
— like the last rose of summer left blooming alone — and who 
will act in your place during your absence. 

James. Scanlan and Quirk, who will call around to see 
that you have no extra work to do and also to see that Terry 
takes good care of the stock ; and I almost forgot, you 
remember you said you would send a feather bed to Father 
John the first good chance you got. Now is your chance. I 
am sure he will appreciate it. 

Aunt Kittie. Very well, I will send the choicest ; and 
now you better be going or you will be late. 






THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 23 



ACT V. 

James. {Stops at the stile and soliloquizes^. I cannot go 
past this dear old spot without stopping ; dear familiar old 
stile, so full of happy recollections of the past; yes, here at 
the bars of this dear old stile darling Mary often met me with 
laughing eyes and joyful heart, and 'tw^as here you gave me 
the first betrothal kiss after promising to be my bride, no 
matter what obstacles presented themselves ; and here I am, 
all alone, and those laughing eyes I shall nevermore behold, 
and here will I often seek in vain to meet you as of old. Dear 
Mary, I will devote the days I have to spend on this mundane 
sphere in the service of God and my country, so that when 
these fetters that bind me here shall be loosened, I may meet 
you at Heaven's gate. 

(Enter Scaiilan and Quirk?) Scanlan. Jimmie, is this 
the promise you made to us a short time ago? You said you 
would pray to our Lord for patience and reconciliation, and 
all your friends remember you in their prayers. 

Quirk. Yes, Jimmie ; and if you were to shed tears enough 
to fill up all the rivers and seas in the universe you could not 
bring her back. You are only injuring yourself, and do you 
not know that the parting here is only the stepping-stone to 
the happy meeting hereafter? So cheer up, dear comrade, 
and let us sing a parting song at this old stile w^here we have 
so often made the welkin ring. 

James. Oh, boys, I cannot sing ; the memory of the past 
would drown my voice. 

Scanlan. Very well; Andy and I will sing, and then 
Jimmy you will, if its only one verse. 

James. I will see how I feel after you and Andy sing your 
songs. 

{^Scanlan sings '' I will Forgive you, Jimmie, if You will 
Come back Again.'' Quirk sings '' Come Back to Erin'^. 

Scanlan. Now come, cheer up, Jimmie, and sing a song 



2-4 THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 

for us; you whose voice always made us light-hearted. Yes, 
do ! it will help to raise the weight from your heart. 

James. Oh, could that weight be removed so easily ; how- 
ever, I will do the best I can I will sing a song that I have 
often sung before, but did not dream that the day would come 
when I would realize it. {jf arnes smgs '' The Eament of the 
Irish Emigrant y except the last verse). 

ScANLAN. There is another verse, the best of all ; why 
do you not sing it? 

James. Because I wish to repeat it at dear Mary^s grave. 
I must be going home now, as I have to call on Father McGee 
and get his blessing ; and then the neighbors will be calHng to 
send messages to their friends in the United States. 

ScANLAN. Very well ; be sure and take care of that copy 
of opinions and resolutions formed at the meeting last night, 
and as soon as possible after you arrive present them to the 
president of the league in the United States. 

James. I will do so. and I will expect you and Andy over 
in about an hour to visit the burying ground. So long, until 
we meet again, {y ames enters his home, met by Aunt Kittie). 

AuxT K. Why, James, what kept you away so long? So 
many of the neighbors have called to see you, and here come 
Mr. and Mrs. Ryan. 

James. {Speaks to them.) How do you do? 

Mr. R. Och, not very well ; and we are heart-sorry to see 
you going to leave us, for our parish will be like a vessel 
without a pilot when you're gone. 

James. I expect to be gone only a, short time, and Scan- 
Ian and Quirk will stand at the helm while I'm away. 

Mrs. R. No matther who is at the head or fut, there is 
none loike yourself 

James. I am pleased to know that my friends esteem me 
so highly. 

Mr. R. Indeed you have not an enemy but Turner and 
Irwin, an' you will overtake them yet; and as we heard you 
were going to thravel through the United States, we will 
throuble you to take a letther to Paddy. 

James. Certainly ; where is he? 

Mrs. R. Wisha, a part called bamyalley, where the nay- 



THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 25 

gurs an' the big 'gathurs are; an' tell Paddy not to go near 
their mouths, or they'll ate 'im! 

Mr. R. {Angrily.^ Wisha! 'Tisaisly known that you 
don't understand jografy. 

Mrs. R. Phat call has I for jografy? Shure, that's only 
fit for thravlers, an' I never expect to be thravling to 'Merica 
or bstrela. 

Mr. R. James, plaze raverse that name; it's Alabama 
where the naygurs an' the alligathurs are. 

James. I know just where it is on the map.. 

Mr. R. Av coorse you do. There's nothin' like larnin', 
is there Jimmy? Here is the letther, an' tell Paddy all the 
particulars in it. 

James. I will hand it to him if I see him, but I think it 
would be best to mail it to him as soon as I land. 

Mr. R. Do as you loike. Good bye, and good luck. 

{J antes shakes hands with them. Mrs. Ryan runs back and 
tells James to tell Paddy that Biddy McKeon sends love to him 
iinbeknoivnst to 7}ie. Enter Mr. & Mrs. Mo7'ne.) 

James. How^ do you do. Mr. and Mrs. Morne? 

Mr. M. Bad enuff; but if we had to walk on the side of 
our fut we would come and see you, brave fellow who always 
tuk such an interest in our welfare. 

Mrs. M. (/;^ a sing-song to7ie-) Phat will we do at all 
widout ye? No one cud scare the divils loike ye! 

James. Iwill not be gone long, and when I return my 
friends will think more of me. 

Mr. M. Well, Jimmie, we wud loike to send a message 
to Mag if twill not throuble ye too much. 

James. I will be glad to deliver it if you give me her ad- 
dress. 

Mrs. M. Divil a dhress will I send her ! She can get them 
chaper than I can. 

Mr. M. (Gives her a pnsh.) Hould your whist! Jimmie 
manes phat part is she in. 

Mrs. M. Musha, now ! I thaut he maned wud I send her 
a dhress. 

Mr. M. She is in a place called Filadelfy. 

Mrs. M. Filamedelfy that's the name; and tell her the 
Careys are going there soon, and the back of my hand to her 



2G THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 

if she dares to look at Mickey Carey. I wants none of the 
informer breed in my family. Some one loike yourself would 
shute me for a son-in-law. 

Mr. M. {Gives her another push out of his way.) 

Mrs. M. Wisha ! luck at the drive he guv me ! Wonther 
but he dhrive me through the wall. 

Mr. M. No wonther ; you displazed Mr. Carroll. 

James. She neither pleased or displeased me. 

Mrs. M. Sure, isint he a widow^ man, and won't he do 
loike all the rest — when one is gone get another? 

Mr. and Mrs. Moriie say their fareivells and request James 
to tell Mag what they 7vant her to do.) 

James. Good bye. I will convey the message if possible. 

(Enter Mrs. Conners, the widoiv ivhoni James saved from- 
eviction.) Well, Jimmie, seeing is believing, and I would 
not believe until I could come and see for myself I trust that 
our divine Lord w^ill grant you a safe and prosperous journey, 
and that you will succeed in bringing those villians to justice. 
Night and morning the widow and her seven orphans will of- 
fer prayers for your safe return. Here is a small token of our 
affection {handing him a small prayer book), and every time 
that your eyes rest upon it remember it is an emblem of the 
widow and orphans' blessing. 

James. Many thanks. I appreciate it more than if Queen 
Victoria had presented me the Koohinoor. {She shakes hands 
saying " Good bye, and God send yon safe home'' ). 

(Enter Father McGee): How' do you do, Mrs. Riely? 
Very well thank you, Father ; only feeling lonesome at seeing 
James leaving home, if it is only for a short time; but these 
long journeys are full of danger, as man proposes but God 
disposes. 

Father McG. Very true, my child, 

(Enter y^;;/^^.) How do you do. Father? 

Father McG. Very well. I see you are bound for the 
United States. I thought it was only talk when I heard it, 
but now I see it is the truth. I hope God will prosper your 
journey. 

James. Thank you. Father. I am pleased that you called, 
as you saved me the walk over to the parochial residence, for 
I did not want to eo awav without vour blessing". 



THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 27 

Father McG. That is right; and my dear child, let me 
advise you to desist from doing anything in regard to pur- 
suing Turner and Irwin. It would be better for you to leave 
them to our Lord to bring to justice, and you would be setting 
a Christian example by your patience. 

James. (/;/ a decided manner^. Father McGee, I respect 
and venerate your reverence the same as all Irishmen do their 
clergymen. No matter how degraded an Irishman may be 
in the eyes of the world, they never lose their respect for the 
clergy. And please allow me, dear Father, to say that we are 
often told that God helps them that help themselves, and also 
I think the true Christian is the one that learns the golden 
rule and practices it. I will hunt those demons who are the 
cause of so much misery to my countrymen and myself until 
I bring them to justice. The true Irishman can not be white- 
washed, and upon my arrival in the United States, that land 
of freedom, I will petition the government to assist me in my 
search for the midnight assassins. 

Father McG. How absurd you talk, James ! What claim 
have you upon the United States government? 

James. Father, what better claim can an Irishman have in 
asking a favor from the United States than I have? Am I 
not a descendant of the noble Charles Carroll, one of the 
signers of the immortal list, the Declaration of Independence, 
and whose name is revered all over the land of the free ? And 
had I not two brothers whose blood watered the battle-field 
at Winchester, and do I not wear next my heart locks of their 
blood-stained hair cut from off their heads after their death 
by my cousin Father Riely and sent to my dear mother 
wrapped up in a small flag of the red, white and blue? I have 
placed a lock of my dear mother's and darling Mary and 
babe's along with my brothers' , and shall always wear them 
next my heart. 

Father McG. I will say no more, or advise you, as I see 
your determination, and as I must be going, kneel down and 
receive my blessing, (jf ames kneels with veneratioii). 

Father McG. May the blessing of God be with you. 
{jf ames rises and shakes hands with Father McGee. who says 
good bye, and requests to be remembered to Father Riely?) 



28 THE IRISH EMIGRANT, 

(Enter Scaiilan and Quirk). Scanlan. Here is Ma- 
loney with the car ; is your baggage ready? 

Aunt Kittie. Yes, boys, everything is ready. 

James. Aunt Kittie, bring along the decanter until we 
drink a parting glass. {^All drijik to James' health, with ma?iy 
zvishes for his safe return. Scanla^i ajid Quirk cariy out the 
trunk, aiid Maloney the bed). 

Aunt K. ( Takes fames by the hand and imprints a kiss 07i 
his cheek). Good bye, Jimniie darling, and God proteft you 
until you return again to me. Write as soon as you land, and 
give my love to Father John and try and persuade him to re- 
turn with you. Do not forget your God and your country. 

James. Aunt Kittie, I shall never forget that motto. Good 
bye. {To Sca7i Ian a7id Quirk). Goodbye; I must now bid 
farewell to the dearest spot to me on earth. {Entering the 
burying -grou7id, fames gives way to his feelings). Dear fa- 
mihar resting place, which now contains the dust of my near- 
est and dearest kindred, and which I hope will be the resting 
place of this body when its spirit wings its flight to the happy 
realms above. {Kneels at his father s grave). I am kneeling 
at thy grave, dear father, where so often in childhood I have 
knelt and watched the sad tears drop from my dear mother's 
eyes upon it, though I did not realize the loss that I sustained. 
I hope I will never disgrace your name. Now, dear father, 
farewell until I visit your grave again. {Kneels at his mother s 
grave?) Dear and affectionate mother, it is well thou hast 
been spared the anguish you would experience were you to see 
your son buried in grief and sorrow, and about to leave the 
land of his birth not knowing whether he will ever return 
again or not. However, I trust that I may, and that my last 
resting-place will be here between your grave and dear Mary's. 
And dear mother, I will live in imagination that day by day 
your blessed spirit will be near me and assist me to overcome 
all obstacles that I may meet with in this life, and that I may 
be happy with you in the blessed hereafter. And dear moth- 
er, I cut a sod from your grave and one from my father's — 
from the very spot that you so often watered with your tears 
— that I may place them on the graves of Jo and Maurice. 
{Here he takes a sod from each of the graves). 



THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 29 

ScAXLAX. You do not expect they will take root there, do 
you? 

James. Certainly they will grow in a soil watered by the 
blood of so many martyrs. {Kneels p7'ostrate at the grave of 
Mary and the babe^. I am bidding you a long farewell, my 
Mary kind and true. And I will not forget you, darling, in 
the land to which I am going. No, darling Mary, I shall nev- 
er forget thee — your memory is engraven too deeply upon 
my heart to be erased; and, dear Mary, I will take a sod from 
thy grave and keep it green with my tears until I return again 
to this hallowed spot, when some day this weary heart will 
be laid at rest by your side, and then there will be no more 
parting or sorrow. {Here he cuts a sod from Mary s grave, 
wraps it np and places it near his heart, then stoops and kisses 
the grave). Farewell, dear Mary and babe. {Here Scanlan 
and Quirk take hold of him and raise him to his feet.) 

ScAXLAX. Come, James, I think you have remained here 
long enough. It is grievous to see your sorrow, and what 
must the burden be for you who have it to bear? 

Quirk. Yes, come ; I'm afraid you'll not be able to stand 
the voyage. 

James. Oh, tear me not away from the dearest spot to me 
on this earth ; and now let me once more kneel and imprint a 
kiss, dear Erin, upon thy sacred soil, as thousands of thy sons 
and daughters have done before me. {Here he kneels and 
kisses the soil, and in a supplicating manner raises his eyes to 
heaven). Heavenly Father, spare me my health and strength 
to return to these sacred shores again, and to live to see Em- 
met's tomb inscribed, the flag of liberty hoisted o'er my 
country and proud and haughty England bending the knee 
of supplication to poor Ireland. \^C2t7^tain falls and suddenly 
rises, and fames appears ivith the American colors and the 
green flag, and sings " The Irish Brigade'' to the air of Red, 
White and Blue. 



Fixis. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



017 401 565 P 



